


oh, come, ye hume childe

by babybirdblues



Series: dcu misc fic parts [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Gen, Magic, Mentions of Murder, mentions of other triggering things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 10:13:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybirdblues/pseuds/babybirdblues
Summary: Tim’s learnt to ignore the shadows that move.





	oh, come, ye hume childe

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this a few years ago and just rediscovered it. Have fun, I guess? Not very edited either.

The shadows move. 

They curl softly at the corners, flashes of gem-bright twisting and inverting into a deep void, followed by hisses and whispers. There’s a promise in them, a weight that turns weightless.

Tim’s learnt to ignore the shadows that move. 

Learnt to ignore the whispers and promises.

So, shadows don’t move. They don’t contain sort-of-there gem-bright, don’t whisper or hiss or promise anything.

When it’s a difficult night -- one where Tim wants to fall gracelessly backwards, wants to open his ears and listen, wants to run and never stop -- Tim will turn on all of the lights, curl up in a corner and just wait.

There’s only so much running you can do. Only so much you can open yourself up to. Sometimes, sometimes --  _ only sometimes, isn’t that right little bird, they only love you sometimes _ \-- it doesn’t hurt to just stop. It doesn’t hurt to tell yourself that there is  _ nothing there _ . To tell yourself that all you have is an active imagination and the only things that will hurt you are accidents and other people.

It works, for the most part. 

Because Tim learnt to lie to things more dangerous than Batman a long time ago. 

He just never really thought he’d actively lie to himself.

\---

_ Don’t think of the lonely nights in cold, lifeless rooms. Don’t think of listening to the shadows, of whispering back, accepting stories and tales, of thinking you might just get love out of it. _

\---

Some nights, Tim thinks he’s not alone in his, well, observations.

On more than a few nights, Tim sees a shadow curl, a gem-colour flicker softly and hears a high tinkling laugh breathing across the rooftops. Those nights, if Tim is patrolling with Nightwing, Tim sees N’s -- no, Dick -- sees Dick’s head tilt, almost as if he’s listening to something. Dick will smile, a crooked thing that seems unsure and a tiny bit afraid. Tim’s throat will tighten, heartbeat beginning to race. But then the moment passes and there’s nothing there except Gotham spread out at their feet. Nothing but Nightwing challenging him to a race, winner gets a whole batch of Alfred’s baking to himself.

Some nights, few and far between, when they’ve just returned to the Manor, Tim will hear Alfred’s soft laughter. Will hear him talking with someone, inviting them to help him run errands, to help him take care of his child and grandchildren. It reminds Tim of long hallways, of empty rooms -- cold and dark. He pretends it doesn’t remind him of brightly lit courtyards filled with flowers and music. Of running and laughing and screams. Of a steady pulse of fear, excitement,  _ you are more than them so make us proud little bird.  _ Those nights he pastes a smile on his face and tells himself he’s not hearing correctly. That doesn’t stop him from going to his well-lit room, shoving a blanket in the crack at the bottom of his door and curling into the corner.

There are only a few nights that he has to watch as Jason snarls at the shadows around him, as he fires indiscriminately at things that -- are definitely not -- moving in the shadows and clutches his head as he screams. Tim hates those nights the most. Because there’s more than just the Lazarus Pit worming its way into Jason’s fragile mind. As much as Tim wants to do something, he can’t. Maybe it’s won’t. Maybe it’s both. Either way, Tim goes home shaken and trying to focus on anything other than jeering whispers and cold hands.

\---

_ Don’t whisper back, don’t talk to things that aren’t there. You know they aren’t there, you know they don’t love you. You’re just a game to them. You do know that, right? _

\---

So, he’s probably not alone. He could probably talk to someone about this. But he’s so used to pretending it’s not there. To ignoring promises and whispers and reaching shadows. 

It has to be enough, that as he grows older, he can bury himself in people who don’t listen to things that can’t possibly be there, who only look at things that are invisible to others because of magic or aliens or technology of some kind -- that he can curl into a couch with Kon on one side of him, Bart on the other; both so bright and warm and offering nothing but themselves. 

He thinks it’s enough that he can now walk past a flash of gem-bright and think nothing of it -- Dick’s arm around his shoulder, a hand ruffling his hair as Tim only rolls his eyes at something Damian is saying; they don’t notice the gem-bright reflection off Damian’s face. 

Now, when he walks into a cold, dark room, his first thought is to find the evidence for the case, not what is waiting in moving shadows -- something caresses his cheek and a whisper beckons him far passed the boundaries of the room but he’s already on his way to the door to the left, a storage closet of some kind that has the machine he’s been searching for.

\---

Tim listens sometimes, as he gets older. Listens to the pretty words and the laughter. On those days, those nights, he leans in and whispers back, tells about the villains just out of his reach or of the injuries he knows Jason is hiding but won’t let him help with. 

He has to hide a smile when the villain turns up dead -- so far, the worst of them, the ones that Tim’s whispered about, haven't been found -- and when Jason comes barging into his apartment glaring but nursing less severe wounds -- Jason doesn’t tell Tim anything, just complains about a drug ring down in his territory that he’s behind on; Tim lets him keep his silence and Jason lets Tim keep his.

\---

The shadows don’t move.


End file.
